Spectator competition: threesomes six ways (plus: clerihews for fictional characters)

The call for poems composed entirely of three-letter words certainly ruffled some feathers. ‘This is the most difficult comp you have set and has driven me mad!’ said Adrian Fry. It was a nasty assignment, I admit, but it could have been so much worse. Take John Fuller’s wonderful poem ‘The Kiss’: not only is it made up entirely of three-letter words; it also has three words per line in three three-line stanzas. Given the potentially dispiriting technical nature of the challenge, I was surprised by both the number of entries and the standard (high). There was a lot of skill and wit on show and it was unusually difficult to separate submissions into winners and losers. I very much admired Frank Upton’s translation of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18 into three-letter words; there was nice work, too, from Chris O’Carroll, Julie Steiner, Bill Greenwell, Sylvia Fairley, John Martin, David Silverman, Max Ross, Gerda Roper and Nicholas Hodgson. The prize-winners, printed below, are rewarded with a very well deserved £25 apiece. W.J. Webster pockets this week’s extra fiver.

W.J. Webster The sea was low, its hue Now all but dun; Fog hid the far off bay, Hid, too, the sun. The old man sat and saw The wan day dim; His eye was dry but all Was sad for him. For joy had met its end: His lot was rue. The sea hut tea was set For one, not two.

Frank McDonald The day Tom Pow saw Liz, his old mum die Low fog had put its sad arm o’er the sea; Sad was the dew o’er fen and bog and lea, Sad was the sun and sad too was the sky. All saw him sit, all saw how Tom did cry For her who was his joy. His gem was she. She was the air for him, his law, his key; All saw him sob; yes, sob and ask God why.

But who can ask his God for why and how? Why did our God let Eve sip sin and fun? God did not aid Tom Pow — it’s not His way — But all saw Tom get ill and beg and bow. The day Liz met her God Tom got his gun. And why did God not aid him? Who can say?

Basil Ransome-Davies Gin, pot and sex? You bet. Why not? The day was mad And sad, all rot: Too wet the sea, Too wan the sun, Too hot the air, Too dim the pun, Too big the job, Too far the pub, Too old the gag, Too raw the rub. Too bad, but now The joy and fun For two who rut Can run and run.

Alanna Blake Yes, man may own his dog, his car, But not the sky, the sea,the air; Men buy and cut ash, elm and yew, Hew, log and use old oak, box, fir. Men err: few see and get the cue.

For all are kin but not all win: Far off, see Leo, yon big cat, Too old for sex, now let him die, His day has run, his cub has won — Can you, can any man say why?

Our day may run, our sun may set And dye the sky raw red, its hue Fog hid, dim lit; let sad old age Cry out ‘Lay off, not yet, not yet!’ Has god now set our due end too?

Alan Millard Sob not nor rue The odd sad day But aim for joy, Too few are gay; Too oft has woe Her own way had And men cut low Are far too sad; Dab not thy eye And cry you not, Ask not for aid Nor rue thy lot; The old can ail, Yea, ail they may, Aim you for joy And win the day.

Sylvia Fairley Big Sal set off for tea, ‘Yes, eat all you can see…’ She did; she was not shy And tho’ the pie was dry, The cod was off, but hey! Our Sal did not say ‘nay’.

The hot pot was too hot But Big Sal ate the lot. The pud, too big for one, She ate; nor did she run, For she was fat, not fit, And all she did was sit.

‘The sea…’ (the day was hot), Her cry ‘I’ll dip, why not?’ Two ton, she was ill met, The end was sad and wet.

Your next challenge is to submit clerihews for fictional characters. Please email entries (up to three each), wherever possible, to lucy@spectator.co.uk by midday on 21 October.